


Christmas 2

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:12:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5627833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lots of people go to Sherlock Holmes for help or advice. Some people know better but do it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas 2

            “No, Sherlock, look—I’m serious.” Greg Lestrade stared across at Sherlock Holmes, his finger pointed at him like an angry father. “You’ve got to give me something.”

            Sherlock stared back at the older man as impassively as an owl, and turned his head away nearly as far. “This isn’t my case.”

            Greg put his head in his hands. “Come _on_. You’re supposed to be brilliant. You’re supposed to be able to figure anything out just from observation, yeah? No one’s had more chances to observe than you.”

            Sherlock snorted. “If that’s true, _Inspector_ , then there is something deeply wrong with your relationship, and I am hardly the person you want to speak to about it.”

            The short, strong fingers clenched in grey hair as Greg half-groaned, half-growled. “It doesn’t work like that! He’s impossible. _You’re_ impossible! Your whole family, you’re complete and utter bastards, aren’t you? Your stupid brains and you’re completely useless when I really need you.”

            Sherlock’s lips parted, then closed again. He raised a finger, then breathed out.

            “Just give me something. _Anything_. I’m desperate, here!”

            “Grant, he's—”

            “You do that on purpose, don’t you?”

            Sherlock’s lips lifted on one side. “Greg. Asking me what would make my brother happy… Have you really thought that through?”

            “Yes!” Greg snapped, baring his teeth. He raised his head and stared at Sherlock, occupying his chair by the fire as though it were a throne. Greg was crouched on the edge of the couch, considering diving across the coffee table and getting his hands around the younger man’s throat. “If you know how to make him miserable, you know how to make him happy, too, because you have to avoid doing it!”

            “Then why can’t you solve this yourself?” Sherlock asked, for all the world as if he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

            “Because I know I _don’t_ know! He’s like a knife! There’s just… he’s Mycroft. I can get him socks or a stupid tie, and it’ll just end up being the wrong colour or maybe it’ll even be fine, but nothing special. He doesn’t go anywhere, he doesn’t _do_ anything. He works, and he sees me. That’s all there is.”

            “What can you possibly see in him?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “If you know that, you know how pointless any of this is.”

            “Because he is human! He needs more than that. There’s got to be more.” Greg trailed off, then dropped his head into his hands again.

            After a long pause—a very long pause—Sherlock took a breath, and Greg looked up. “If I do this for you, you’re going to owe me,” Sherlock said, slowly and carefully.

            “ _Anything,_ ” Greg said.

 

            Mycroft sat in John’s usual chair, staring across at his brother, waiting. Watching him hide something, stuff it away in his mind palace and lock the door.

            He smiled faintly.

            “What is it?” he asked, momentarily feeling a trace of fondness for his younger brother.

            “No, it’s nothing,” Sherlock said, begging to be asked again.

            Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

            Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, and looked away. “I resent being dragged into this,” he announced.

            “I’m sure you do, but you are such a mine of useful observations,” Mycroft said, watching Sherlock struggling with the concept.

            “You’re like children.”

            “You would know.”

            “Why don’t you ask Sergeant Donovan? She works with him.”

            “Precisely. She will only know what he shares willingly. Besides, are you seriously going to try to tell me that you know less about him than Donovan?”     “What’s in it for me?” Sherlock demanded suddenly.

            “I’m happy to wait all day while you work that out.”

            Sherlock tipped his head, considering this. “No, sorry, it’s going to have to be something more than that.”

            “It depends what you can tell me.”

            “What did you do while I was away?”

            “The relationship was newer then.”

            Sherlock waited, watching him. He tipped is head to the side.

            Mycroft recognized the move, and his brain flicked through the associations. The result left him puzzled. “But… why?”

            “Do you think he hasn’t heard you say it?”

            “He doesn’t keep any pets.”

            “Besides you.”

            Mycroft _tsked_ and pushed to his feet, knowing he’d already lost, and that Sherlock knew, as well.

            “Besides, that isn’t what he wants,” Sherlock said, beginning to smile faintly.

            “If you can’t tell me—”

            “Get him a goldfish, but that isn’t the key. That’s simply a step in the process.”

 

            Greg scrubbed the soles of his boots on the mat as he waited for the door to open. He’d left the gift in a box behind a bush in the front of the house, intending to get Mycroft out of the way before he brought it in. He checked the bottom of one foot, then shuffled it more on the mat. He pushed the bell again.

            After another pause, he was about to push the bell a third time when he finally heard the locks being opened. He shoved his hand back into his coat pocket. Mycroft finally opened the door abruptly, staring at Greg as if startled to see him.

            “Er, hi. Happy Christmas.”

            Mycroft blinked, and his face relaxed. “Yes, sorry, come in.” He backed away, holding the door wide.

            “No, um, first, can you just go back inside for a minute? I’ve got something I need to bring in.”

            Mycroft frowned slightly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Just…yes.” He took a step back, then turned and retreated through the front room.

            Greg watched a moment to make sure he’d gone, then ducked back out and picked up the box, carefully holding it level, and, tipping his head aside to watch his feet, climbed the two steps to the door and went in, kicking the door shut behind him.

            “Shall I—?” Mycroft’s voice came from the hall to the kitchen.

            “No! Just… a minute.” Greg looked around the room for somewhere to set it. He knew he didn’t want to put it under the tree, even if he instinctively felt Mycroft would approve of the traditional look of it. But there was a present already setting on the coffee table—at least he assumed there was a present under the enormous gold bow. The ribbon was wide enough to have white, sparkling glitter, 2” snowflakes running the length of it. Greg looked at the green-and-white striped box in his hands, with a cheap, plasticky red bow selotaped on one corner. He set his box down on the opposite end of the table and reminded himself that the gift inside was what mattered, and Sherlock himself had made the suggestion.

            Now he just had to hope he hadn’t been Sherlock about it.

            “Yeah, good in ’ere,” he called, going back to the front door to lock it. When he came back, Mycroft was standing in the sitting room, hands in his pockets, looking down at Greg’s gift.

            “Spoken to your family yet?” Mycroft asked, lifting his head to face Greg.

            “Eh?” He stopped in the middle of taking his coat off.

            “Your family. Happy Christmas and such.” He smiled briefly, his head back as if looking down his nose.

            “Oh.” Greg finished removing his coat and hung it on a hook on the door. “Yeah. I’ve…yeah, they’re fine.” He took a few slow steps into the room, his eyes on the gifts. “Look, should we…?” He pointed.

            “Yes. Of course.” Mycroft took a step back, and pointed at the sofa.

            Greg slid in between the sofa and table and sat down carefully one third of the way along. He glanced up at Mycroft, who didn’t meet his eyes as he stepped around and sat down in the opposite corner.

            “So who—”

            “Shall I—”

            Greg hung his head, grinning. “Why don’t you open first? I think I’m more nervous than you are.”

            Mycroft leaned back on the sofa, one arm along the top, the other on the arm. “You’ve nothing to fear, you know. Considering some of the Christmas gifts that have… _happened_ in my family—”

            “Yeah, all right, I didn’t kill anyone, but just…do yours.”

            Mycroft leaned forward again, shifting to the edge of the seat.

            “It’s…just take the lid off.” Greg said, trying not to reach across and do it for him.

            Mycroft looked up at him sharply, then down at the box.

            “What?” Greg asked, but Mycroft was already lifting the lid.

            “Ohh, Greg,” Mycroft said, looking inside, his voice actually full of wonder.

            Greg let his breath out in relief, finally grinning. “D’you like it? I mean, I spent some time trying to figure out which kind to get.”

            Mycroft lifted the glass bowl out of the box carefully and held it at eye level, watching the scrap of bright blue swirling around in the water inside, turning to look at him and dodging away again. “It’s utterly beautiful. I…thank you.”

            Greg finally had the nerve to touch him, and set his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “There’s a book, too, and some other supplies. I left ‘em in the car. I thought they might give it away, and if you didn’t like it, I didn’t want you to be stuck having to return a whole load of stuff.

            Mycroft glanced aside at him. “Greg, I don’t know what to say,” he said softly, his eyes returning to the fish. “It’s captivating.”

            “Good,” Greg said quietly, pleased beyond all expectations. “I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer to keep it here or at your office, or something.”

            Mycroft knocked the empty box off the table with the side of the bowl and set it down carefully, still staring, now bending down a bit to watch through the side. “Yes, I’ll have to think about that,” he said absently.

            Greg watched him, wondering if one of those long fingers was going to be dipped into the water to try to tickle the little animal, and if he did, whether or not the fish would somehow magically allow it, because this was Mycroft Holmes. “Happy Christmas,” Greg said.

            Mycroft straightened and turned to him as if he’d just woken up. “Yes. Thank you. I’m… Here, you’d better open yours.” Mycroft nudged his gift closer to Greg without picking it up.

            Greg reached under the bow and found the flat surface on the top of a box, grasped the bow in his other hand, and pulled. It tore off easily, revealing a box wrapped in metallic paper. He glanced at Mycroft, noting that this box, too, had a lid.

            “You can pick it up, but be gentle,” Mycroft said, watching Greg’s hands.

            Greg hesitated, but took hold of the lid instead and lifted. Inside was an octagon of black plastic. “Can I—?”

            Mycroft nodded.

            Greg slid his hands into the box down the sides, feeling smooth, cool glass. He found the bottom and lifted. “Oh, no…” he said with a laugh. It was a small, self-contained fish tank, the top seemingly sealed. Inside, there was a floating plant, a small frog, a snail, and a bright gold fish with red and white flecks. The fins weren’t as extravagant as the fish he’d given Mycroft, but it was nonetheless beautiful.

            “I love it,” Greg said softly, turning the octagonal column in front of his face before setting it on the table. “Mine feels—”

            “No,” Mycroft said quickly, raising his hand. “I can see what he’s done.”

            Greg looked up at Mycroft, one eyebrow raised and his mouth open to object, and paused. “You did, too?”

            “Clearly.”

            “We both asked your brother for advice,” Greg said flatly, just to be sure.

            “He may have kept us too compartmentalised to see what he did. I don’t think he’s adjusted to the idea, yet,” Mycroft said absently, leaning back again and replacing his arms along the top of the sofa. “But more likely—and I realise this may be ludicrous even as I say it—he may have been being kind.”

            Greg leaned back against Mycroft’s side and looked at the fish. “’S funny. Why’d you get the self-contained thing?”

            “Well. Your job. You never know when you’ll be called out, or for how long. It would almost be cruel to give you something that needed a great deal of attention regularly.”

            “Good point. But I should’ve—”

            “I spend a great deal of time in one place, and most of my time is spent thinking, not doing. You did a remarkably fine job with your choice. He didn’t tell you?”

            “Tell me what?”

            “What kind of bowl or fish or anything?”

            “Just told me you wanted a fish.”

            Mycroft shifted slightly. “Do you remember exactly how he said it?”

            Greg shrugged carefully. “Something like you wanted something and had been looking at goldfish and getting bored by the idea. But yeah, he said you wanted a fish, just not a goldfish.”

            Mycroft sighed, and Greg felt him shifting further. “Gregory, I care for you deeply, and you make me…happy.”

            Greg smiled at the stilted, awkward phrasing. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

 

            John sat down heavily in his chair. “Fish,” he said.

            Sherlock looked at him over his steepled fingers. “Yes.”

            “Both of them?”

            “Both of them asked me.”

            “And you told them both to get the other a fish. Why a fish?”

            “If they’re going to be…living…in…”

            John waited, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock’s inability to say the words, but refusing to say them for him.

            “Together,” Sherlock finished, and took a deep breath. “Mycroft believes he’s living in a world of them anyway. Making it a bit more literal was…amusing.”

            “Did you just make Greg give him a gag gift? Standing in for you? Sherlock, is that— really?”

            “Don’t make such a fuss,” Sherlock said, dismissing John’s bluster with a wave. “It didn’t really matter _what_ they gave each other. That wasn’t the point.”

            “What was?”

            “Don’t you—” Sherlock stopped himself. “Both of them wanted to make the other one happy. I planted the idea of the fish, but told them both that what the other really wanted was to see the other relax and be happy and just enjoy the day.”

            John sat for a moment, waiting for the rest of it. There was none. “That’s it? You told your brother and Lestrade both to just…be happy?”

            “Are you implying there’s something wrong with that?” Sherlock asked, his face contracting in his suspicious, perplexed expression that came out whenever he didn’t understand something with emotions.

            “No. No, Sherlock, I’m just surprised you actually… did it. Really? That’s all you told them? Fish, and being happy?”

            Sherlock’s gaze slid sideways back to the fireplace. “Really, John. I’m not completely blind to other people’s emotions.”

            “No? I mean, no, you’re not.” He scratched his eyebrow for a moment, then pulled out his phone, scrolling blindly through recent texts. “So that’s it? That’s you done?”

            Sherlock chuckled. “No. Hardly begun.”

 

            Greg had his arms around Mycroft’s midsection and they were staring into the fire. “So what’d you promise him?”

            Mycroft sighed as if he’d known the moment would come. “I agreed to let him turn assignments down occasionally.”

            “Ha! Really?”

            “Yes, why?”

            “Well, because he made me promise to let him look through open cases any time he started getting bored.”

            “At least he occasionally gets things done for you.”

            “But d’you see? All we have to do is tell him it’s something that’s landed in Serious Crime somehow, and he’ll demand to look it over.”

            Mycroft bent to kiss the top of Greg’s head. “Bless you, Inspector Lestrade.”

**Author's Note:**

> The bit where Sherlock tips his head and Mycroft infers what he means might be hard to follow. It's based on the way Sherlock tips his head when he's saying, "But I've been away. I thought you might have found yourself a goldfish." Mycroft remembers the "get yourself a goldfish reference and assumes (correctly) that Sherlock is suggesting he get Greg one. When Sherlock says, "Do you think he hasn't heard you say it," he means he's sure Greg has heard Mycroft complain that he's living in a world of goldfish. If he's said that once, I'm sure it slips out in moments of annoyance.


End file.
